


Take Me To Nirvana

by Anonymous



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, At least I tried, Blow Jobs, Elementary understanding of yoga, Human AU, Human!Castiel - Freeform, Humor, M/M, Personal trainer!Sam, Smut, Yoga teacher!Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2019-02-19 22:52:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13133883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Sam has the hots for the hot new yoga teacher.





	Take Me To Nirvana

**Author's Note:**

  * For [theladywinchester](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theladywinchester/gifts).



> You have no idea how hard it was to not make this fluffy. Sastiel is the fluffiest ship ever. I had a great timing writing this and I hope you enjoy it too! <3

-.-.-.-.-

Sam Winchester, fitness freak extraordinaire and most requested personal trainer at the gym, has a couple of very big problems. And, for a miraculous change of pace, neither of them are clients.

No, Sam’s problems are much harder than that. And more flexible. Very flexible, in fact, he notes as Problem Number One, oh he of the tousled dark hair and pale sweat-slicked skin, transitions out of revolved side angle pose into a low lunge complete with back bend, arms clasped behind his head, and the sole of his right foot resting in the crook of his right elbow. It’s seamless and sinuous and makes Sam’s other problem push against the confines of his baggy polyester training shorts.

Castiel.

Just that first name, nothing else. Just Castiel. And with that face and that figure, that first name is really all the guy needs. He’s been here a grand total of two days and already Sam would like to bend him into a different kind of pretzel than the one he’s got himself in now. Mmm. Just the thought makes his breath hitch, and he unconsciously licks his lips

“Sam,” Garth gasps at the top of a sit-up, “Sam, can I stop now? I’m at eighty-five.”

Oh. Right. Client. He has one of those right now. Wrenching his gaze off Castiel’s impressive pretzel moves, Sam turns his attention back where it should have been this whole time. “Give me another fifteen, man,” he says in his sunshiny you-can-do-it voice. “Challenge of the day.”

“I think I’m gonna die,” Garth moans, but does as Sam says and starts his last set of jerky, rickety and overall bad excuses of sit-ups that even a third-grader would be ashamed of. But it gives Sam another minute or two to watch Castiel lead the yoga class in a sun salutation sequence. Garth wheezes and grunts and whines, but Sam can’t hear a thing over the sound of angels singing a hallelujah chorus as a bright beam of sunlight shines down at just the right angle through the high glass windows to highlight the new yoga teacher’s perfectly pert ass as he dips into forward fold.

God, just watching him is enough to push a bead of precome through Sam’s slit. Luckily he’s wearing a jockstrap or this would be even more awkward, especially considering the proximity of Garth’s beet-red face to his crotch. But even the thought of his skinny beanpole of a client going down on him doesn’t solve Problem Number Two. Sam’s hands clench and unclench at his sides, itching to touch. He can’t decide if he wants to smack that ass while bending Castiel over the bathroom sink in the locker room or clutch those firm globes while the yoga teacher puts him in the plow position, and not the yoga kind of plow either.

As Castiel pushes himself up from the floor into downward facing dog, Sam’s perverted mind decides for him.

 _“Fuck, you’re flexible,_ ” _Sam hisses into the yoga teacher’s ear as he pushes his knees to his shoulders, ass in the air and feet dangling above his head. Hovering over him in plank, Sam buries his cock in the yoga teacher’s hole and groans as the tight heat envelops him. He pauses for a moment, letting his partner acclimate to the fullness, then thrusts with abandon, already on the brink of orgasm._

 _“Yes Sam, yes. Fuck me. Fuck me_ hard _,” Castiel moans in that deep, gravelly voice that had Sam half-hard the first time he heard it._

“Oh god,” Garth whimpers, snapping Sam out of his fantasy as he flops onto the black foam mat, moaning and coiling up like a limp spaghetti noodle.

Mentally bitch-slapping himself out of his ridiculous and probably illegal-in-some-states public sex fantasy, Sam makes sympathetic noises and claps Garth on his sweat-soaked shoulder. “Good job, man,” he says in his wow-you-are-amazing voice as he sneakily wipes his hand off on an abandoned towel hanging off a nearby piece of equipment. “Go get some water and take a little break. Then we’ll get started on working those glutes.” Those glutes are nothing but flat ass pancakes, and probably always will be flat ass pancakes even if Garth spends the rest of his life doing nothing but squats and ham raises and hip bridges, but Sam has to keep the fires of hope and imagination burning within Garth’s mind if he wants to keep his client.

Mewling like a newborn kitten, Garth pushes himself to his feet with Herculean effort and limps toward the water fountains at the front of the gym, which are conveniently located just outside the group exercise room. Just the sight of Castiel’s chiseled, lightly stubbled features and a smile that could make models in toothpaste commercials gnash their gloriously white teeth in jealousy makes Sam’s stomach do weird little flip-flops. For a moment their eyes meet from across the gym, and it’s like someone zapped him with a cattle prod. It might just be his very vivid and overactive imagination, but Castiel’s luminous white smile seems to widen just before they break eye contact. Sam sits back on his haunches, as winded as if he’d run a marathon as warmth fills his chest like Johnny Cash’s burning ring of fire.

Oh man. He’s got it bad and he knows it.

-.-.-.-.-

With some creative schedule wrangling, cashing in a few favors, and a promise to bring Dean an entire pie during lunch tomorrow (probably so he can eat it in his glass-walled manager’s office while taunting all the people on the cardio machines with his sugar soaked calories, but whatever, Sam doesn’t judge), he manages to get Wednesday afternoon off. The gym’s pretty much dead this time of day, empty except for the truly dedicated and the truly desperate. It suits Sam just fine. Less competition for a certain someone’s attention. Though if he’s read this situation right, and he’s pretty sure he’s read this situation right, the handful of bored housewives ditching the house in favor of ogling the hot new yoga teacher for sixty minutes are not the kind of competition Sam has to worry about.

At least he hopes so. God, he’s such an idiot for doing this without even knowing for absolutely sure if Castiel swings his way. When did he become such a trashy hoe for complete strangers? That’s Dean’s shtick, not his.

 _New day, new you?_ a voice snarks at the back of his mind. It sounds suspiciously like Dean. Sam shoots it the mental equivalent of a bitch face and then bitch slaps it back into his subconscious so he can continue making questionable life decisions without a running commentary on why these questionable life decisions are A Very Bad Idea.

Drawing himself up to his full and, if he does say so himself, very impressive height, Sam saunters into the group exercise room in the tightest pair of spandex shorts he owns, all swagger and bluster as he plonks his red yoga mat as close to Castiel as he possibly can without crossing that thin gray line between enthusiastic new student and enthusiastic new stalker. No one likes personal space bubble invaders, after all. Not even space bubble invaders shaped like objectively hot personal trainers with raging hard-ons for also objectively hot yoga teachers.

Who, Sam notices with a little fizzle of gloom, is currently meditating in full lotus position on his mat, hands resting on his knees with thumbs pressed to his ring fingertips. In other words, completely oblivious to Sam’s objectively hot presence.

Deflating a little at the thought that his grand entrance went unnoticed by its intended audience, Sam sighs and bends over to unroll his mat.

But in the midst of his notice-me-senpai gambit, he forgets about the bored housewives, who, as it turns out in a wow-I-never-saw-that-coming sort of way, are not oblivious to his objectively hot presence. Every set of open eyes in the room latches onto his gloriously toned ass, leering like a flock of vultures who’ve discovered fresh carrion. Sam’s skin prickles and the hairs on the back of his neck stand at nervous attention. He can practically feel the predatory gleams in their gazes.

Suppressing a shudder, he pastes a fake smile on his face, throws them a friendly little wave over his shoulder that looks more like a stay-over-there-and-we’ll-all-be-fine gesture, then rescues his gloriously toned ass from the visual version of bad-touching by planting it firmly on his mat.

A chorus of disappointed groans heralds this development, accompanied by what sounds like a convoy of rubber mats scooting his way across the hardwood floor. Resisting the primal urge to curl into a defensive ball, Sam coaxes himself into performing some stretches with the hopes that the sight of chiseled muscles being all chiseled and muscly will slow down the oncoming barrage. No such luck. _Squeak thump. Squeak thump squeak thump._ A single drop of sweat slides down his back. Swallowing harshly, he inches his own mat forward as far as he can without literally throwing himself into Castiel’s arms, the “Jaws” theme in his head clashing with the serene sound of sitars and chants piping through the speakers. He twists and pulls at his clothes, for once wishing he could make one of Dean’s jokes come true and fart rainbows out his ass to gay them away.

Sam’s just about resigned himself to death by bored, sex-starved housewife when Castiel’s eyes snap open and everyone freezes. The deepest blue eyes he’s ever seen survey the room, and Sam forgets all about the pack of bored, sex-starved housewives when Castiel’s gaze pauses on him, dipping low and lingering on his nether regions longer than what’s technically polite (and oh, Sam is so on board with that) before slowly climbing him back up with the hint of a smirk tugging at the corners of his lush pink lips.

Before Sam can keel over and die at how utterly hot that was, the yoga teacher gracefully uncurls his hands from his knees and presses the palms together at his chest. “Namaste,” he murmurs, dipping his lips to his fingertips. “Everyone is so close to the front today. How wonderful.”

Sam just smiles and nods as all the blood in the head on his shoulders rushes downstream to the head between his legs.

“I see some new faces today. Would you like to introduce yourselves?” Castiel stares pointedly at Sam, who smiles dumbly back at him like a giant doofus until the last few functioning brain cells unscramble themselves and he realizes that that was a question.

“Oh! Uh, right.” He shakes his head to clear away some of the happy light-headed fuzzies floating around his empty skull. “Uh, my name’s Sam.” Heat sweeps across his ears and the back of his neck and he inwardly winces. Smooth move, Winchester. He’s totally into you now.

The odds must be in his favor, though, because Castiel doesn’t drop the firm eye contact as he licks his lips and tilts his head to the side. “Sam,” he says in that low, baritone rumble that makes Sam’s insides all hot and squishy. “Welcome to yoga.”

Sam’s breath catches in his throat. “Uh, yeah, thanks. Happy to be here,” he manages to squeak out.

Castiel’s eyes dip down to Sam’s crotch again and his smile widens. “Yes, I can see that,” he murmurs softly for Sam’s ears alone, eyes smoldering with intensity. The fact that Sam’s not an exhibitionist is the only thing keeping him from tackling the yoga teacher right then and there. Well, that, and the fact that he doesn’t know if Castiel would be into it.

Apparently satisfied at how riled up he’s gotten his new student, Castiel gives Sam a tiny nod and then turns his attention back to the rest of the class. “Okay everyone. Let us prepare for our warm-up stretches. Closing your mouth, breathe in and out through your nose, allowing your exhales to last at least one count longer than your inhales. Your breath should sound like the ocean tide breaking on the shore…”

Sam follows along in a dreamy little daze, a stupid smile on his face. The opening stretches are easy enough, and he’s done enough sun salutations in his lifetime that he can do the whole sequence in his sleep. But every time Castiel looks his way, pink lips parted and wide blue eyes staring at him shamelessly, Sam’s knees turn into Jell-O Jigglers instead of the finely sculpted columns of manly muscle they are, and he wobbles through the easiest flows like one of those solar powered dancing flower things Dean keeps on his desk.

He’s teetering his way through tree pose like a quaking aspen when he notices Castiel pause to correct one of the no-longer-bored housewives’ stances. A hot flare of jealousy courses through him, and his body aches with the need to have those long, slender fingers wrap themselves around his hips and do bad things to him, and only him.

So as Castiel passes by, Sam helpfully sticks out his ass like an hot yoga teacher homing beacon.

Two seconds later he remembers why you shouldn’t helpfully stick out your ass like an hot yoga teacher homing beacon during tree pose when he loses his balance and topples onto his mat like a redwood in lumber season.

For a second he just lays there, staring up at the ceiling while his body aches from his bad decisions, when suddenly a chiseled, stubble dusted face pops into view.

“Are you all right, Sam?” Castiel asks, brow furrowed and eyes wide in concern. “That was quite a fall.”

And yeah, this is exactly how Sam didn’t want his crush to see him. Coughing, he rolls over onto his stomach and tucks himself into child’s pose, hair falling across his face like a conveniently shaggy curtain that hides his shame from view. “’m fine,” he mumbles to the rubber ridges on his mat. “’m just…gonna stay here for a minute.”

Soft, cool fingers skim down the curve of Sam’s back, making him shiver involuntarily. “Please, take your time. I do not want you to injure yourself further. But when you feel ready to get back up, you are more than welcome to join us in dancing warrior flow.” Sam snorts to himself. Getting up isn’t exactly what he’s struggling with right now. Castiel lingers a moment longer before removing his fingers from Sam’s spine. Sam watches his bare feet float away toward another student, mourning the loss of contact that felt a little too familiar and overly friendly to be purely platonic concern for a student’s well-being. The thrill of Castiel being almost definitely maybe into him shoots his dick to half-mast. Sighing, Sam curls in on himself, hoping he doesn’t spend the last part of the class face down on the mat.

God must be smiling down on him, because his dick loses interest after about five minutes of Sam very deliberately not thinking about objectively hot yoga teachers and he’s able to rejoin the class for the last flow. As long as he keeps his eyes to himself, he’s good, he’s fine. He can do this. Finding a spot on the wall nowhere near Castiel’s aura of sexiness, Sam focuses on it with all he’s worth and even manages to pull off a decent eagle pose.

After final stretches and the obligatory corpse pose, during which Sam beats back any thoughts of Castiel with a rake while he’s on his back, Sam gathers up his yoga mat and heads for the men’s locker room, not bothering to put his shoes on. It feels more like a walk of shame than it has any right to, considering the fact that he actually did okay after he pulled his head out of his ass. His footsteps echo on the tiled floor as he heads for his favorite locker at the far back of the room. It’s as deserted in here as it is out on the floor, and the screech of the locker as he pulls it open is almost deafening.

After stashing his yoga mat inside, Sam shrugs out of his clothes and chucks them in along with his shoes. He sweated more than he thought he would, and not all of it was innocent workout sweat either. So he grabs a clean towel from the clean towel bin and wraps it around his waist as he shuffles toward the showers to wash away his sin, scrubbing a hand down his face. Maybe he was an idiot to think an objectively hot yoga teacher like Castiel would be into him, an objectively dorky dumbass who can’t even do a basic tree pose without ending up on his —

“Hello, Sam.”

Shit, he hadn’t even heard anyone come in. Jerking his hand away from his face, Sam screeches to a halt just before he crashes into Castiel, who’s standing about a foot in front of him, hands on his hips.

Oh yeah, and he’s buck-ass naked.

 _Naked_ , a chorus of lascivious voices chants in Sam’s head as his eyes bug out of his head, afraid to blink lest the holy vision of perfection turns out to be a hallucination brought to life by his sexually frustrated brain. _Naked! Naked! Naked!_ An embarrassingly high pitched and borderline hysterical giggle escapes his lips. _Naked!_

 _“_ Sam?” The holy vision of perfection cocks his head to the side and takes a step towards him.

A cloud of butterflies erupts in Sam’s stomach and a tingling rush of adrenaline surges through his body. Oh God. He’s here. He’s actually here. This holy vision of perfection is really here in the locker room with Sam — _Naked!_ the voices chorus helpfully, in case he forgot that part — and wow, he has no idea what to do. So he just stands there like a slack jawed idiot, stammering and stuttering while his brain tries to remember how to word.

“Are you all right?” Castiel asks, concern (probably for Sam’s sanity) etched deeply in his features. Squinting up at him, the yoga teacher leans so far forward into Sam’s personal space he instinctively takes a step back and finds himself backed against the cool, tile-covered wall.

Sam’s tongue finally unglues itself from the roof of his mouth. “Uh, y-yeah, I’m fine, I’m just — uh —” He swallows harshly, and then, because making bad life choices is apparently his theme for the day, he adds, “— You’re, uh…really…hot and…um…yeah?” he trails off into flustered silence, tugging at the towel and fidgeting in place. Shit. He can’t believe he just said that out loud. Restraining orders are probably in his future now. Way to go, Winchester. Way to go.

Castiel stares up at him for the longest two seconds of Sam’s life, then blinks and says, “I am quite cold.”

Sam can’t help it. Between the earnest, serious expression on Castiel’s face and the deadpan delivery of that last line, he bursts out laughing, sagging back against the wall as all the tension he didn’t realize he was holding drains out of him. “No, dude,” he wheezes around a relieved chuckle, scraping the back of a trembling hand over his mouth, “I mean —”

“I know,” Castiel says, mercifully interrupting Sam before he can pile even more dirt on top of the grave that is his sex life by explaining himself. “But I am cold, and I think you can help me.” With a pointed look he reaches out and skims the back of his hand down the side of Sam’s face, then turns and heads for the showers without another backward glance.

Sam’s heart is thrashing his chest like a death metal drum solo. Did that…did that really just happen? He must have misunderstood him, right? No way that just happened. Blinking rapidly he gapes at Castiel’s retreating back (okay, fine, he’s totally staring at Castiel’s gloriously pert ass), wondering if he should follow him.

 _Naked!_ the lascivious voices insist.

 _Restraining order!_ the rational part of his brain reminds him.

“Are you coming, Sam?” Castiel’s echoing voice floats from the showers.

Sam’s half-way there before Castiel gets done talking, flinging off his towel along with all his inhibitions.

He skids around the corner in time to see a dark blue curtain flutter at the far end of the shower aisle. The tell-tale gush of a showerhead turning on fills the locker room, and seconds later steam floats above the partitions on the last stall. Smirking to himself, Sam slinks down the aisle as quietly as he can, fully intending on surprising Castiel. Seconds later he’s there. Poking out his tongue playfully, he reaches out to yank the curtain back.

A sinewy arm flies out and jerks him inside before his fingertips even graze the surface. Sam’s eyes fly open like saucers and he gasps as he finds himself pinned against the slick, tiled wall by his shoulders. Castiel stares up at him, unblinkingly, but with the same vague air of satisfaction as a spider that has caught a fly in its web.

Well. Huh. Sam totally didn’t see that coming. Castiel is way stronger than he looks. He has half a second to wonder what he’s got himself into, and then the yoga teacher’s lips crush against his and all coherent thoughts fly out his ears except for the vague notion that he doesn’t mind being the fly in Castiel’s web.

Hot water sluices around them as they kiss, or, more accurately, as Castiel devours Sam’s mouth and Sam just lets him, because apparently all his finely sculpted muscles are useless against the impassioned desire of a skinny little guy who has to stand on his tiptoes to kiss Sam. Moaning deep in his throat, Sam helpfully slides down the wall a few inches to give Castiel better access. With his squat-chiseled thigh muscles, he can do a simple wall sit all day.

That was apparently the right move because Castiel growls, like literally actually growls, and captures Sam’s wrists to pin them next to his head. A groan punches out Sam’s throat as a thrill of warmth surges from his belly button to fill out his half-hard cock. God, it feels amazing. Most people assume that because he’s tall and muscular that he’s a toppy bastard, and while sometimes that’s true, the fantasy of being pinned and taken is one of his well-worn favorites. Lucky for him Castiel seems to have the same idea, if the greedy way he’s claiming every inch of Sam’s mouth is any indication.

When they finally break apart, chests heaving, Sam tilts his head back and exposes the long column of his throat. Castiel instantly latches onto his neck, sucking kisses into the sensitive skin, hot water splashing off his head and shoulders to spray Sam’s face. He so does not give a shit right now. A bead of precome pushes out the slit of his throbbing cock as Castiel suckles a hickey on his pulse point, making him whimper and squirm in the yoga teacher’s grasp. “Fuck,” he gasps.

A low laugh rumbles in Castiel’s chest. Moving his mouth from Sam’s deliciously abused neck, he licks his way up to Sam’s ear and then flicks his tongue along the shell. “You like this, don’t you Sam?” he asks in a deep, rasping whisper that sends chills up Sam’s spine and then back down to settle low in his stomach.

“Y-yeah,” he breathes out in a shaky tone, body quivering in anticipation of what Castiel will do to him next. “Yeah, I really do.”

“Good,” Castiel rumbles, breath ghosting over Sam’s ear. He whimpers again, fingers curling into fists next to his head as his cock gives a mighty twitch, aching with the need to be touched. Castiel must be reading his mind (which is absolutely miraculous since Sam himself can’t even do that right now), because he releases one of Sam’s wrists to skim his palm along the underside of Sam’s length, thumb swirling around the head to coax out more precome.

The eager cry that punches out Sam’s throat is so loud he’s pretty sure everyone on the floor can hear it, but fuck if he cares right now. Instinctively his hips roll forward, seeking more of that sweet friction. “Please,” he gasps, shamelessly begging for whatever Castiel’s willing to give him. Castiel tilts his chin up and smirks, oozing self-satisfaction. And god damn, he’s earned it, in Sam’s well-on-his-way-to-wrecked opinion.

“So polite,” Castiel murmurs, barely loud enough to be heard over the thrum of the shower. “I think I will reward you.”

Before Sam can string together enough brain cells to ask what he has in mind, Castiel drops to his knees in front of Sam, latches his long-fingered hands around Sam’s hips, and sucks ravenous kisses along his very red, very hard length. Stifling another embarrassingly loud moan with a hand to his mouth, Sam leans forward and watches Castiel’s nimble tongue stroke and lick him obscenely. Just the sight is almost enough to get him off.

Then Castiel glances up at him, blue eyes blown nearly black with lust, and, without breaking eye contact, he sucks the thick head of Sam’s cock into the wet heat of his mouth, pink lips stretched around Sam’s ample girth.

“Oh…oh f- _fuck_.” Sam’s eyes roll into the back of his skull and his head falls back on the shower wall with a _thunk_. Fuck. Heat ripples up his chest and down to his trembling thighs as Castiel takes him in further, inch by excruciatingly slow inch in a lazy rhythm, and he’s suddenly not sure if he can stay upright after all. He might just slide down the wall and melt into a happy little puddle. Whining low in the back of his throat, he reaches down with his other hand to card his fingers through Castiel’s damp hair.

A sharp smack to the side of his ass cheek makes Sam yelp. Eyes flying open, he glances down in time to see Castiel pull off of him with an obscene pop, a thin thread of spittle spanning the short distance between his lips and the now purplish-red head of Sam’s cock. “Cross your wrists above your head and keep them there,” Castiel says, sounding more like a drill sergeant than a yoga teacher.

And fuck if that doesn’t make Sam’s whole body spasm with pleasure. Biting his lip almost hard enough to draw blood, he does as he’s told. “Yes, sir,” he says before he can stop himself.

Castiel makes a hungry little noise at that and latches back onto Sam’s length, sucking him with such gusto that Sam can’t help the heady moan that bursts out his throat. “Oh god, oh god, oh god…” he chants, squeezing his eyes shut and losing himself in the sensation of Castiel’s mouth hot and tight around him, hot water spattering his face and chest. God, he’s so warm, so fucking warm, oh god…

Another firm suck and a sharp tug on his balls, and Sam cries out as he more or less explodes, hips stuttering against Castiel’s lips. Castiel eagerly swallows his release, humming in delight each time Sam spurts down his throat. Once Sam’s finished Castiel licks every inch of his cock clean, making Sam jump and shudder as Castiel’s tongue brushes across the oversensitive skin. Fuck. Sam just stands there, quivering all over and panting like he’s just sprinted his way through a damn marathon. If not for the yoga teacher’s hands anchoring him to the wall, he’d have just slithered down to the floor and died.

“That was beautiful, Sam.” Licking his lips, Castiel rises to his feet and presses a kiss to Sam’s parted lips, tongue sweeping across his bottom lip in a bid for entrance. Sam immediately lets him in. He can taste the sharp saltiness of himself on Castiel’s lips and tongue and oh god he never thought that could be as sexy as it is right now. His entire body thrums with a warm kind of lingering satisfaction, but as the post-orgasm haze clears from his mind, the need to make Castiel feel as wonderful as Sam feels right now overrides his desire to just float along like one of Bob Ross’s happy little clouds.

Humming against Castiel’s lips, he risks another smack to his ass and reaches down to cup Castiel’s length — only to find it soft in his palm. Wait. What the—? He pulls back from the kiss and frowns down at the yoga teacher, chest tightening in confusion. Did…did he not enjoy what they just did? “Is…uh, is everything okay?”

Castiel blinks and tilts his head to the side. “Of course, Sam. Why wouldn’t it be?”

Sam shrugs and runs his hands up and down Castiel’s wiry arms. “Well, it’s just, uh. You’re…not hard anymore, and —”

“—and you are concerned that I did not achieve orgasm?” Castiel finishes for him in that oddly formal way of his. Sam nods, fidgeting in place, not knowing what to do with himself right now. Then Castiel smiles and leans forward to peck a kiss on the side of Sam’s mouth. “Don’t worry; I came while I was going down on you. I have never gone down on someone as large as you and it was quite a wonderful experience. But it’s kind of you to concern yourself with my pleasure.”

Sam jerks his head back a little at that, which turns out to be a really bad idea because he’s still practically flush to the wall and ends up smacking himself upside the head. “Uh, yeah. I mean, of course I’m concerned about your pleasure. Why wouldn’t I be?” he asks, rubbing at what feels like will soon be a small bump. His brain, happy to have enough blood to function again, starts helpfully conjuring up scenarios about why Castiel would say something like that. Each one is so much worse than the one before it that Sam pretty much convinces himself that Castiel is too precious for this world, and he has to fight back the urge to clutch Castiel to his sopping wet chest and hold them there forever, petting his soft hair (Sam doesn’t actually know if it’s soft but hey, it’s his fantasy, so) and murmuring sweet nothings into his ears.

What he’s thinking must be showing up on his face somehow because Castiel smiles at him, close-mouthed but sincere, and traces a thumb along Sam’s lips. “Your soul is warm and bright, Sam. I hope to see you in more of my classes. Namaste.” Pressing his palms together, he bows his head and then slips out of the shower before Sam can stop him, leaving Sam staring after him, speechless.

Needless to say, he doesn’t miss a single one of Castiel’s yoga classes.

-.-.-.-.-

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are fabulous! :)
> 
> Find me on Tumblr @this-darkness-light for more Supernatural stuff. <3


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